


Shooting Stars Taste like Ash

by RemixtheBox



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Designer!Asahi, Hopeful Ending, Regret, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Loathing, poorly described volleyball match
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:08:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27633875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RemixtheBox/pseuds/RemixtheBox
Summary: A shooting star burns brilliantly for only a moment before burning up in the atmosphere. Asahi was never supposed to be a shooting star.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Shooting Stars Taste like Ash

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by an idea for a roleplay I had and I needed to expel it like a demon.

When he flutters his eyes open, the stretch of bed beside him is already empty. Sex, sweat, and cologne linger in the air, although the scent has long gone stale. Glitter still stuck to his chest reflected the light coming through the windows across the room, drawing his attention to the sticky feeling the spray left on his torso. Asahi flexed his hand, feeling how cold and empty it seemed. He had really wanted this one to stay until breakfast.

As he blinked the sleep out of his eyes, the tremors started. He let out a sigh to try and relieve some of the tightness in his lungs. He couldn’t even properly lounge in bed, not that he wanted to anyway. He blinked once. Twice. Then with a groan he dragged himself out of bed to chase the need for a drag of a cigarette. 

Unfortunately, the cigarette did not relieve the headache gathered at his temples- that was entirely the work of the hangover and not the withdrawal symptoms. Asahi did not usually drink, maybe every couple of months. But last night, he needed some sort of human connection that wasn’t just professional handshakes and candy-coated barbs he used to spar with his competitors. He was hot enough to get laid when he wanted.

He was, however, never interesting enough to convince them to stay. 

Perhaps they could taste the ashes in his kiss. Feel the cool dying embers under his skin. Somehow, they all knew he was hollow, burned to only ash by the fire that raged inside of him. Somehow, they knew he was empty. 

After flicking out his cigarette, he left to start his morning routine. He always began with brushing his teeth, the sour flavor it created when mixed with the lingering taste of his addiction a punishment for being… well, being. Existing was a crime for Asahi even not factoring the rest of his faults. But he factored them in anyway. You know, for flavor.

After a shower and completing his tasks, he stood in front of the large mirror in his closet. His hair was pulled back into an effortlessly messy bun, he was dressed to the nines in a way that was just eccentric enough to turn heads, he had a charming shy smile on his lips. He was beautiful. But his eyes were empty.

“How are you going to work towards your goal today?” His voiced seemed to echo into the space, trying desperately fill empty cracks. He asked himself this question every day, a habit he picked up in high school. He asked even though there was no answer anymore. He had no goal anymore. But some lonely part of him hoped the shy but determined man from his past would answer. The one with a goal he repeated every day like a prayer, the one with passion running through his veins so thick he could overdose on it, the one with friends to lean on and confide in.

But he reached that goal, the passion burned out, and one by one the friends left- no, the friends were pushed away by Asahi’s own hands- in order to pursue their own ambitions outside of “Asahi’s spotlight.”

In college they always made jokes and bets on who was going to be the shooting star. The one who burned bright and beautiful and then burned out in the atmosphere. No one ever guessed it was going to be Asahi. Not reliable Asahi.

It was another day of no answer from the mirror.

He was silent when he left, but he managed to smile at his driver. He wanted to say thank you for his help, but the words got caught on the ashes in his throat. Another time, then.

As soon as he stepped into his fashion firm, his personal assistant was already at his side, spewing off the daily news and upcoming trends that needed to be on their radar. He remained silent as she followed him into his studio, because ashes in the shape of a man didn’t really have much to say, anyway. 

She must have gotten fed up with his silence, because she eventually left in a slight huff, grumbling about “moody designers” under her breath. He could hardly blame her on her frustration.

Alone once again, he pulled out his sketchbook, reviewing the scratched designs he penciled in just last week. All of them were unimaginative and dull. Everything his name was not known for. Still, he needed to have designs finalized by the end of the week so he could begin construction and in a couple months’ time, have them ready for the runway. Not to mention he had a large photoshoot after the runway where he planned to drop a new line of clothing. Which he hadn’t even started on. 

He turned on the TV to a random sports channel in order to give him background noise as he worked. Sports commentary had a familiar rhythm to it that he found easy to get lost in. He picked up a pencil and started to draw what was bound to be another complete failure on his part. 

After a half hour or so, he stared at his work and felt the small bit of heart he had left crumble. It was awful, and it looked sterile. There was nothing exciting about these ideas. It just proved, once again, that he did not deserve to be here.

Not when he stepped on the back of his peers. Not when he demanded all his photographers work long and unforgiving hours. Not when he forced his models on diets that could kill them. He was unforgivable, deplorable, and if he could just give it all back-

Asahi stared at the tears on the paper, gently blurring the lines on another stupid attempt to salvage a career he didn’t even want anymore. 

He turned his attention to the TV. He needed a distraction. 

It was Volleyball- something he played once, in high school. Despite being only 23, it felt like ages had gone by. A small bitter smile twisted his lips when he saw the players rejoice at a single point, despite trailing by a large margin. The losing team- The Crows, if the screen was to be believed- looked like they were frothing at the mouth. 

When they lost the next point, it seemed to only make them look more feral, immediately getting prepared to receive the next serve. The opposing team made their serve, one so powerful it felt like the smack of the ball echoed even in the crowded stadium. It was going to be a service ace, no doubt about it-

Until the small libero dove under the ball and knocked it up, smacking his face on the floor in the process. 

Asahi leaned forward in his chair, shocked by the speed and reaction time the libero showed. The Crows managed to recover the ball and keep it in play. The resulting volley was brutal, lasting so long both teams were becoming strained, until the team in the lead finally managed to land a quick attack. It was disappointing to say the least. 

And yet… the Crows didn’t even blink. They regrouped quickly, looking like a perfect working unit. The person who he assumed to be the captain if the team yelled out some indecipherable words and the team immediately responded by screaming back at him. It was passionate, and determined, and just a little bit desperate.

The designer was enraptured by the set that followed. The Crows fought tooth and nail for every point and began to close the gap between the scores. They were still losing, there was no way they weren’t aware, but they never lost steam. They grew sharper with every play.

But when they lost- Asahi’s heart broke at the devastation written so clearly on their faces. The small libero’s face crumpled in heartbreak before he hid it in his arm, the ace glared at his shoes as if they had the answers for their loss, the Captain was biting his lip and holding back tears. This was their last game in the season, and they had lost.

It was heart-wrenching. It was human. It was inspiring. Because they picked themselves up and they congratulated the other team. They hugged each other close and collected their water from the bench. Then the libero turned and gave a small, watery smile to the camera.

Asahi remembered this feeling. Just not when he was playing volleyball, but when he first began to design. Slammed door after slammed door in his face and yet having to stand up again and continue, trying harder than the last time. 

He scrambled for his sketchbook and began to create for the first time in months. 

He could feel his hand starting to shake and his body aching for a cigarette and a headache beginning to form, but he ignored it. Because this desperate need to create and get these feelings out of him was more addictive, more oppressive than the physical need for nicotine. 

His secretary entered, the young woman staring at Asahi with exasperation.

“Mr. Azumane, your appointment with the photography team is in 15 minutes.”

Asahi did not look up from his work, “I want to offer all our photographers up for trade with our competitors. Our models, too. I will make list of the ones I would like to trade for.”

She blinked at her boss in complete shock, opening and closing her mouth repetitively. Eventually she stuttered out, “But s-sir, you never trade with- “

“Every single one. We need a completely new line up, runway and photography.”

She protested and tried to bargain, but Asahi complete tuned her out, looking at the masterpieces on pages. There was movement, his figures active and moving. He needed models with ambition, he needed photographers with vision, he needed to start over.

He took a deep breath, and finally, he felt like he was burning.


End file.
